Forever Young
by Lila2
Summary: Do you really want to live forever, forever and ever?


**Title:** "Forever Young"

**Author:** Lila

**Rating:** PG

**Pairing/Character:** Veronica, Hannah

**Spoiler:** "Versatile Toppings"

**Length:** one-shot

**Summary:** "Do you really want to live forever, forever, and ever?"

**Author's Note:** I've have this idea in my head for a while now, but been too busy and distracted to develop it until now. I don't watch "The O.C." anymore, but was still moderately inspired by Youth Group's sweet, dreamy cover of Alphaville's song. Not a song fic, but there are song lyrics included in the body of the story. Title, summary, and break points courtesy of either.

* * *

**_"Are you going to drop the bomb or not?"_**

The first time you lay eyes on Hannah Griffith, really see her, not a passing glimpse in the hall as she breezes past clutching Logan's hand, you think you're seeing yourself. Long blonde hair, bright blue eyes, rosy cheeks, a brilliant smile – it's like falling three years into the past. She has a messenger bag hanging off one shoulder, and you can see the pep squad stickers and buttons adorning the lapels, a glittery heart decorating one pocket.

You look up to meet her eyes and the sun is suddenly in yours and Lilly is rolling her eyes as you bend your head and her shadow slopes over you, blocking out the bright rays, darkening the pale pink heart you're drawing on her sneaker. Your hair falls into your face and you push it over your shoulder with pale pink fingernails, Lilly's laughter dancing in your ears and the sun spreading warm over your shoulders, and you don't even mind when you glance up to catch her eye and the sun is so bright it's blinding.

You blink, because you have to, and the mirror breaks, thick shards pooling at your feet, their rims sharp like the edges of your hair that fanned away from your face. Hannah is watching you with a nervous smile as she pushes long blonde hair over one shoulder with pale pink fingernails, her lips stretched almost painfully, and you wonder if she holds the position for too long if her face will shatter the way your life did.

Mr. Porter, the newest and most masculine journalism teacher, lays a heavy hand on your free shoulder, fingers digging in slightly like he knows you're on the verge of bolting. "Veronica," he says, his voice strict and commanding. " This is Hannah. She transferred into journalism this semester."

"Hi," she says quietly, twisting a lock of hair around her index finger. You used to do that too, when your life was different, and your mother would nag you about your hair breaking off if you weren't careful, and you're tempted to tell Hannah that Logan might not like her so much if she were going bald. But you're not that petty, at least not today, and you're not your mother. Thank god you're not your mother. Instead, you smile as best you can and say hi in return, forcing some enthusiasm into your voice.

"Sierra Cartwright's paintings were accepted as part of a student exhibit at the Museum of Contemporary Art San Diego," Mr. Porter explains. "Hannah's going to be writing an article. I thought you might like to take pictures."

You don't want to take photos. You haven't touched your camera since the debate Lamb smeared all over your father, and its weight suddenly feels like a hundred pounds in your own messenger bag, and you're glad for Mr. Porter's hand on your shoulder or you think you really might keel over. "Sorry, can't, big test tomorrow" you say and shrug off Mr. Porter's hand, smile apologetically in Hannah's direction, and try to sneak out of the room.

"Veronica," Mr. Porter says sternly. "You are still enrolled in this class, and you haven't turned in an assignment since Christmas break. You need this job."

The Kane scholarship and your ticket out of Neptune shoot to the forefront of your mind and you stop in your tracks, slowly turn around. Hannah is watching you with a slightly wounded expression on her face, like it's because of her that you're turning down the assignment, and you don't bother correcting her because you don't want to explain that journalism just makes you think of seven innocent people who died in a bus crash meant for you. And you really don't want to begin discussing how journalism makes your heart hurt where Duncan used to be, and that you can't sleep at night because all you do is think about him and his baby and everything that went wrong.

"It's okay, Mr. Porter," Hannah says before you can explain. "I'm not really ready for a major assignment. Maybe I can help her edit, learn about the writing process before I take on something so big myself."

You should hate her, you really should, for being so accommodating and helpful, and putting a monkey wrench in your perfect plan to avoid a painful trip down memory lane, but you can't quite because she's so damn earnest and nice, so much like you used to be, and you have to wonder again what Logan is doing with her, and if has less to do with her being skinny and blonde and more to do with her father being a plastic surgeon. Another pawn in another rich boy's game. She's way too much like you used to be.

"Veronica?" Mr. Porter asks testily, arms crossed over his chest and fingers tapping lightly against his forearm. Hannah is back to twirling her hair around her finger and watching you closely, gauging your reaction, because she is a sophomore and you are a senior, and even though you're the closest thing she's ever met to a social reject, you're still someone she wants to impress. That, and you used to date her ex-boyfriend, and she's probably wondering if you'll kick her in the shin for taking what used to be yours or accept her peace offering.

You sigh, because you don't have a choice. "It's okay," you say. "Having a partner will make it go by faster." You shoot your biggest, brightest smile at Mr. Porter. "I'll still have time for studying to ace my test."

He smiles smugly, all proud of himself. "Great!" He picks an envelope off his desk and holds it out as you accept it warily. "The show is tonight at eight and there's a press preview at six. They've included two passes, and I put in directions to the place. You can both get there on your own, right?"

Hannah lets go of her hair long enough to frown. "I don't have my license, but I can get a ride. Just let me make a call – "

"It's okay," you interject so you don't have to spend the evening with Logan and her making goo-goo eyes at each other. You know she'll call him, and you know he'll show up just to piss you off. It's been his favorite pastime the last few months, even as it's beginning to lose its appeal for you. There's no pleasure in losing another person you loved. "I can give you a ride," you suggest and Hannah smiles shyly, fingers creeping back to her hair. It's taking everything in you not to go all maternal on her and yelling at her to stop.

"Are you sure?" she asks.

"It's not problem," you smile back and you're expressly aware of how fake your voice sounds, the enthusiasm clearly manufactured and for show. You already know this night is going to suck and she knows it too, but you both keep up the masks while Mr. Porter is watching.

"Good, then it's all settled," he says. "Hannah, I expect a rough draft by press time tomorrow. Veronica, you'll have the photos developed by then?"

You nod. "I'll use my free period," and realize you might enjoy time in the dark room. It will distract you from brooding over how lame your life has become. You look at Hannah, catching her eye. "I'll meet you in the parking lot at five?"

"Sounds good," she responds and you both book it out of the classroom like your lives depend on it.

You go your separate directions when you step into the hallway, and you head for the parking lot for some alone time with Back Up before you have to spend four hours with Logan's newest version of romance. Your car is still scratched from Dick's carelessness a few days before, but it's not the chipped paint that makes you catch your breath. It's the willowy blonde sliding onto the front seat of a yellow X-Terra, her laugher catching on the breeze and her pink fingernails gripping the doorjamb as she climbs inside, and the fleeting glimpse you have of yourself.

**_"Hoping for the best but expecting the worst"_**

The drive to San Diego is awkward to say the least. Hannah meets you in the parking lot as promised, and Logan's car isn't anywhere in sight, but you're still a little breathless as she gets in your car, pulling her pink ski cap further over her ears, tugging on the zipper of her fluffy white jacket. She looks like a walking piece of cotton candy and you wonder if that's what Logan likes about her, or if he ignores the ache in his teeth in favor of manipulating her father. You tell yourself it's none of your business and that Hannah Griffith can take care of herself. You know you don't really believe it.

"Hi," she says awkwardly as you pull out of the parking lot and towards the highway. The sun is just starting to slip out of the sky and you turn on your headlights just to be careful. After the year you had, you need to be more careful.

"Hi," you say in return, trying to ignore the biting silence in the car. You wonder if you should say something like, "Geeze, Mr. Porter sure is a prick isn't he?" or "How about that weather?" but you just keep your eyes focused on the road while she stares absently out the window, tugging her hair in endless circles around her finger.

This time, you can't resist. "You know, your hair is going to fall out if you keep doing that," you say and cringe because you really do sound exactly like the deceitful traitor you used to call mom.

"What? Oh, I know. My mom is always bugging me to stop. "Hannah, you're going to go bald if you keep that up." She smiles. "It's a bad habit, but I can't help it when I'm nervous." It's dark, but you think she blushes over that admission.

"Don't be nervous," you encourage her, and wonder how you turned into some kind of warped maternal figure for your ex-boyfriend's new girlfriend. "The first assignment is always the hardest, but Mr. Porter wouldn't have given it to you if he didn't think you could handle it." You both know you're not talking about journalism, but you keep up the act anyway.

"Thanks."

The ride reverts back to painful silence and she stops wreaking damage to her hair long enough to stare wistfully at the radio. "There's a CD case under the seat," you say. "Pick anything you like."

The sound of the zipper scraping open is the only sound in the car. "Radiohead, Arcade Fire, Interpol…" she trails off. "Uh, do you have anything a little more upbeat?"

You laugh, just to break up the tension. "It's been a long year. The radio is fine too." She laughs with you, and you turn back to the road before she realizes how much truth was in your joke. It has been a long year, and while it was a nice try, listening to "Kid A" in repeat didn't really solve much.

"Oh, wait," she exclaims and pulls out a blank CD buried under the rest. "What's this?"

There's no label and the silver metallic seems extra bright in the dying light. "It's a mix," you explain. "Logan made it for me…" you continue before you have the chance to think about what you're saying.

Instantly, the temperature drops ten degrees. You glance over at her and she's biting her lip, fingers creeping up the long tails of her hair as she contemplates what to say next. "Is that why you don't want to do the story with me?" she asks. "Because I'm dating Logan?"

You suck in a breath and you know she hears you and probably thinks you're jealous and in pain or something like that. You don't bother to correct her, don't bother to tell her that it's her you're worried about because nothing that involves Logan Echolls ever ends well. "Logan and I were over months ago," you say as means of an explanation and hope she leaves it at that. "I don't care who he dates."

"Okay," she says quietly, waiting a beat before continuing. "Is it really true that someone shot at you?"

You suck in a silent breath as the cars zoom by on the highway, blurring slightly with speed, and for a moment all you can see is the glass shattering in slow motion around you. "He told you about that?"

She nods. "He wanted to be honest about what it means to go out with him. He told me about Lilly too," she says gently and this time you don't care how much noise your breathing makes.

"Lilly was special," you say and mean it, really mean it. It's one of the few things you mean these days.

"He told me all about her," she says. "How much he loved her…" you can feel her eyes on you as she continues. "I never met her, but he made her real to me, you know? It helped me understand him."

You have to laugh at that one, you really, really do. "Logan's complicated," you start, right back in maternal mode, but you can tell she isn't listening.

"He's just special," she says, and her voice gets all dreamy and far away, like yours used to when you talked about Duncan. "He's different from every other guy I've met." You thought the same thing once upon a time, but then the prince of your dreams knocked up another girl and ran off into the sunset with their lovechild and left you to pick up the pieces.

You should tell her that Logan will do the same. You should tell her about the GHB, about his father, about the abuse, about the alcoholism. You should tell her that her father is the key witness in his murder trial, that she's a pawn in a dangerous game. You can already picture her reaction. "So all I am to Logan is a game of chess?" You'll have to spell it out for her, explain how Logan will break her heart the way Duncan did yours.

But then you remember how much more you liked your life before you found out Lilly was sleeping with Aaron, and that he was beating his son, before Duncan thought he was your brother and you thought Jake might be your father, before your mom ran and Lilly died, before you woke up cold and defiled and alone.

"Sure," you agree. "Logan's different." You don't tell her that Logan will betray her the way Duncan betrayed you. You don't tell her that he'll use her the way he used you. You don't tell her anything. It's not your place to destroy her dreams.

**"Can you imagine when this race is won"**

The last time you traveled for a journalism assignment it was the first time Duncan had spoken to you in over a year and not unlike your adventure with Hannah. You snap photos of Sierra's work, a few of the artist herself, and sulkily sip a cup of punch while Hannah works the room. She has the easy smile and spunk that make her a prime candidate for the pep squad, and you struggle to remember if you were ever really that way. What was it Lilly had said, she needed an outlet for too much pep? You don't remember those days. You only remember the lies pouring from Lilly's mouth that final afternoon, feel the water she splashed at you and soaked your uniform, see the fading stains on your t-shirt when you stumbled out of your father's car and found her bleeding and dead. When you close your eyes, you can still hear your screams.

Hannah's life isn't like that. You did a little research. You know that her parents split up, that she's taking it better then her younger brother, and she stays at her father's house every other week. You wonder how her family could split at the seams and she could still laugh and smile in ways you can barely remember. But then again, her mother might have walked, but she didn't split. Her family might have changed, but it wasn't ruined beyond repair. Her life is like yours, but not yours, and you hate her a little, just a little, for getting the better end of the deal.

You glance over at her, pink scarf twined around her neck, blonde hair spilling over her shoulders, and have to smile at the way she laughs with Sierra's younger brother and puts her interviewee at ease. You look down at your fingernails and pick at the chipping mulberry polish, note the heavy black boots peaking out from under your cords, wonder if you should trade them in for French tips and magenta Diesel sneakers.

Hannah comes over, slipping on her jacket and pulling the cap down over her forehead. She tells you she's ready to go, the smile still lingering on her face as she tucks her notepad into her messenger bag. You again note the pep squad buttons, and ask her why she joined. "Resume filler," she says and rolls her eyes. "My dad wants me to go to Stanford."

"I know what you mean," you reply. Once upon a time, you had the same logic. You're still a member of the Future Business Leaders of America even though your dreams of attending Stanford with Duncan at your side are a long ago memory. You're still tempted to quit, but damn if you don't want a one-way ticket out of Neptune, and the thought of letting something go gives you the shivers. If you'd let Lilly's murder go, Aaron would still be beating the shit out of his son, and Abel Koontz would have died alone. You see things through to the end, no matter what they cost you.

The night wind is cold on your face as you push through the museum doors and into the night, and while you live by the ocean, the air has never felt as fresh and liberating as it does at this moment. Your nail polish catches the light as you open your car door and you decide the contrast of the dark purple against your skin is flattering. You reach over to unlock Hannah's door for her, pressing your foot against the floorboards. You like the secure weight of your boots against the pedals. You like how your hair is long and the edges are falling bluntly against your shoulders. You like that you're not Hannah. You like that you're just you.

**_"Let us die young or let us live forever"_**

Hannah still hates your music and spends the first ten minutes of the drive back fiddling with the radio. You're about to rip her arm off is she doesn't just pick something when she squeals like the emo teen she is, "I love this song!" she exclaims. "They played it on "The O.C." a few weeks ago!"

You hate "The O.C." but decide the song is okay. Lilly loved it though. You'd watched the premiere with her that last summer, heads propped on your fists and your knees crossed, giggling at Mischa Barton's bad acting. "She has no boobs or ass and Marissa sucks," Lilly had said. "Ryan has bad hair and Seth is whiny. This show should totally be about Summer."

"I like Seth," you'd said because his dark hair reminded you of Duncan's.

"Luke's hot," Lilly had responded, eyes heavy-lidded. "The things I could do to that boy…"

You stopped watching the show because Marissa reminded you too much of Lilly, even if Seth turned out to be nothing like Duncan.

"Isn't this a great song?" Hannah asks and you snap to attention, smiling as the memory fades.

_"Youth is like diamonds in the sun  
Diamonds are forever"_

You change your mind. You hate the song almost as much as you hate the show it came from and what you're about to say.

"Hannah, I need to tell you something," you say because you're sure of very few things, but you know that no one gets to stay young or happy forever. If you did, life wouldn't have kicked you in the ass at sixteen.

She turns the music down, turns to look at you, but you keep your eyes focused on the road so you don't have to see the smooth cheeks and bright eyes and the pale pink fingernails pushing blonde hair back from her face. "What's up, Veronica?"

"It's about Logan," you start and her face immediately lights up and you wonder how to tell her that the boy she's clearly infatuated with is only dating her to lose a murder rap. What seemed to clear only a moment ago is much murkier now. You glance at her again and her face is open and waiting, and you're not sure you can do it. Three years ago, would you have wanted someone to tell you that your entire world was a lie? Would it have made the truth hurt any less? "Ignorance is not bliss," is all you manage to say, and Hannah looks at you in confusion.

"What?" she asks.

"Logan is using you. Your dad is the key witness in his murder trial and he's using you until he changes his testimony. You're just a game to him," you finish and wait for the ball to drop.

She's silent for a moment and she drops her hands into a lap, burying those pink fingernails in her palms. "I know," she says quietly.

If you hadn't intentionally slammed your car into a tree before Aaron Echolls set you on fire, you might have run the car off the road. That was the last thing you were expecting. "You know?" you manage to say.

"He told me everything," she explains and sounds a little bitter, but there's no anger in her voice. "My dad's a liar, he has a drug problem – he's not who I thought he was." She catches your eye and she's confident and assured and nothing like the flighty girl who got in your car a few hours earlier. "I know what's going on and I believe Logan. Nothing you say about him will change my mind."

"Okay," you say softly because you have nothing else to say. You're not the jealous ex she seems to think you are, but there's nothing you can do to prove otherwise. "I just thought you'd want to know."

She turns back to the window and the radio fills the space between you, and out of the corner of your eye her fingers twine in her hair and you swear you see them tremble.

**_"So many dreams are swinging out of the blue  
Well let them come true"_**

You drop Hannah off in the parking lot and say goodbye. She apologizes for freaking out and says she'll see you in journalism class the next day. You smile your own apology and wave at her retreating figure.

You don't watch as she climbs into the passenger seat of a familiar yellow X-Terra. You don't feel guilty about telling her the truth. You had to learn the hard way – ignorance is not bliss.

Your father's door is closed when you get home and you can hear his breath wheezing out in even intervals through the cheap plaster, and you smile the way you always smile when you sneak in the front door and tiptoe through the dark to your bedroom because he's always waiting and always there. You need that predictability in your life.

You close your bedroom door and turn on your computer, sliding Logan's mix into the CD drive. You change your mind again, because it's your prerogative, and because you can.

You do like the song.

_"Let's dance in style, let's dance for a while"_

You open you closet doors and push past the fur-lined hoodies and blazers, past the yellow cotton sundress you keep swearing you'll throw out, and your fingers close around the pep squad uniform hanging all the way in back, frozen in time, a memory of a life you can't call yours anymore.

The shirt is a little tight around the chest thanks to the push up bras Duncan loved so much and you can't seem to stop wearing, but you slide it down your ribs anyway, button the hideous green shorts you paired it with, slip your feet into Uggs two seasons out of style.

_"Forever young, I want to be forever young" _

You are young, or at least the girl in your mirror is. You ask yourself if you recognize the girl standing before you, reflected back at you like a long buried nightmare. She's a figment of you wearing clothes you used to own, pretending to be someone you used to know. You tear rip the shirt over your head, tear angrily at the button fly of your shorts. You kick the boots across the room and hope your father doesn't wake up from the dull thud of them connecting with the wall. You're not that girl anymore. You shouldn't be wearing her uniform.

_"It's hard to get old without a cause"_

You had cause. You've felt pain – you've lived it. And you survived. It's more than you can say about most of the people you've loved. You don't want to be like Hannah, happy and healthy but completely oblivious. You don't mind the pain because it means you're feeling. It means you're awake. You don't care that it's not who you used to be.

You shut off the music with a snap and slip under the covers, the vestiges of your former life a mess on your floor. You can clean them up in the morning, sweep them away to a special place you'll keep tucked in your heart, a happy place you'll slip inside when real life is too much to take.

You can kill the girl you once were, but the memories will live forever. And that's okay.

* * *

Writers live for feedback – please leave some if you have the time. 


End file.
